Grecian Fantasies hosts one of the hottest balls in town, a naughty
Nobody-Knows-Your-Name masquerade that is not only exclusive, but is also not
for the faint of heart.

Pleasure, fantasy, fetish, and vice are all on the menu at this ball.
The only thing not up for grabs is the notorious woman behind its creation, but
that is about to change.

Excerpt:

“I’m Weston,” he said as he wound Rob’s ribbon around his neck, tying
it in a neat bow, and making himself appear as a giant unwanted present.
“What’s your desire?” Rob started to tell Weston that he desired for him to go
away, but a bright yellow feather caught his eye once more, and his gaze found
the Goddess across the room.

“I need you to fetch someone,” Rob answered, deciding to use the
awkward situation to his advantage.

Rob paused. Lumberjack hands? No, he was not going to ask. “What are
lumberjack hands?”

“You know, he can wield his . . .” Weston began before Rob waved his
hand, cutting him off.

“Never mind, I get the picture.” And he did, too. He would never be
able to wash this moment from his mind. Getting back on track before things got
out of hand, Rob pointed across the room. “Bring her to me,” he ordered.

Weston’s face fell as he caught sight of the woman to which Rob
referred. “I cannot,” he stammered, sounding horrified.

“What the hell? I thought you were supposed to fulfill my desires or
some shit?”

Weston seemed honestly distraught over Rob’s aggravation. “I’m sorry.
If you ask me to fetch anyone else for a bit of fun, then I am at your service,
any service,” he added, raking Rob’s body with his eyes. “However, that is
Theadonis and I cannot do as you command.”

“The Adonis,” Rob repeated, sounding ridiculous even to his own ears.
“I thought Adonis was a man. That is no man.” As the words left Rob’s mouth, he
found himself tilting his head to one side and studying the woman closer just
in case he was wrong.

Weston rolled his eyes. “Not
‘the Adonis.’ Theadonis. That’s her name. She is the owner of Grecian
Fantasies.”

When did you read your first book
and realize half way through that you never wanted it to end? What book was it?

I’ve
loved reading for so long that I can’t remember the first one that made me feel
that way. I can remember the first romance that I ever read. It was “Velvet
Angel” by Jude Deveraux.

You have a fairly strong presence
on social media, twitter, facebook , and on and on…how do you find the time to
write your books?

I
keep writing hours. Of course, if I’m inspired I will write right then, but I
have self-imposed writing hours when the internet stays turned off.

What is one of your guilty
pleasures?

Starbucks
toffee-nut mocha. They are so fattening but I love it.

How did you end up writing erotica?

My
writing has always contained a heavy romance element, and with each new
release, I came a little closer to becoming labeled as erotica. Finally, after
receiving a review that said my book should have come with a warning, I decided
to give it a try. I was nervous about its reception but people seemed to love
it so I kept writing.

Do you ever get stopped by complete
strangers because of your books?

I’ve
never been stopped on the street but I have had fans show up to book signings
and that was awesome. It is a very surreal to have someone excited about your
autograph.

Tell us about the glamorous life of
a modern erotic writer…

Ha!
There is nothing glamorous about it. I’m just excited that I can work from home
and I don’t have to put on shoes, or pants, if I don’t want to.

I was involved in a discussion with an author the other day who was upset with Americans and their lack of understanding that there is a British form of English as well as the American version. Supposedly an American corrected her spelling on a word that was spelled using the British version of English. While I can understand her frustration I had a hard time with the fact that the post in a way was about how horrible Americans were, and how the few of us that weren't ignorant hillbillies should rightfully rest under the cloud of negativity those others created. There are 315,000,000 Americans currently living in America...and all of those Americans have the freedom of speech. They also have the freedom to chose where they spend their dollars and if they prefer books that are written in the American style of English, well, more power to them. I guess what bothered me is that if you took the word American out and replaced it with Black, or Chink or Whop or Fag or any other derogatory word they would have fit. Why is it OK to be a bigot if it is directed at another country? And when has the argument It's ok that I do it because everyone else does it held water?Now had you asked a question like "why would America or a good portion of Americans not want to learn the Queens own version of English?" you might have gotten a response like: from the time of the revolutionary war America has striven to separate itself from its colonial roots. And while I have no problem acknowledging that there are two different forms of English, there may be a portion of Americans that will never acknowledge the validity of your form of English because of the revolutionary war and the scars it left behind. Chris McQueeney

This is Being linked to The Mag 145 where Tess brings image for us to go all poetic on.

Tomorrow will be Thanksgiving for those of us on this side of the pond. To some the holidays are a very stressful time...I think there are many reasons for that. For me they are a time to be enjoyed. I get to see my family, or at least a good portion of them.

A good portion of my adult life I dreaded the family gatherings. I wasn't sober and would have to go around people that most definitely were. I remember not being able to look people in the eye, and coming up with some diversion to get the attention off of me.

Fifteen years ago today I was sitting in the Depaul long term treatment center for my drug addiction...and again I was dreading Thanksgiving. I was sober, and the most sane I had been for eight years, and my family was coming to see me. For the first time in my life I was truly ashamed, actually it was the first time I was truly ashamed and sober at the same time.

Looking back now, fifteen years later, I can see that that was the first holiday in over eight years that I had nothing to be ashamed about. Yes I was in a treatment center, and yes I went to sleep there every night to the sounds of cockroaches running in the walls, but I was sober.

That was the first time in a long time that I was able to look my father in the eye...sitting in a shithole cafeteria, in a shithole building in downtown Portland Oregon, eating food that was mostly donated by local food banks.

I am grateful for that day...that was the only sober Thanksgiving that I ever got to spend with my father. Enjoy the holidays, enjoy your families; Years from now those memories may be some of the best of your lives

Happy Thanksgiving to all of My American friends, and to the not so American ones as well.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

I
am a bit sad tonight. Sad because I had to make a decision that I didn't agree
with, or like. While it was happening a large part of my mind was saying fuck
that, that isn't fair…, I shouldn't have to do this. I don’t have to do it, no
I don’t have to, but I chose to do it because it was the right thing to do.
Everyone deserves to be treated with humanity and respect.

Last
night I got to think about some things that I haven’t thought about in a long
time…I got to think about the time in my life when my sister finally escaped
from the abuse and fear that we called home. We lived in Idaho with my mom and
step dad. Our house was on the corner of 11th and Dewey, just a
block from the high school.

Just
before she moved away there was a fairly bad episode between my mom and my sis.
At one point while my mom was attacking her, my sister hit back. At that point
my mom fled the room and screamed at my step dad “she fucking hit me, sick her
Doug, sick her.” At that point my memory gets a little fuzzy. I think I cowered
in my bed wishing it would end, and fearing that it would come in my room; and hating
myself for not being able to do anything to stop it. I always had that shame, I couldn't stop it…I was scared, and I couldn't stop it, and so I hid.

And
I hated myself for still loving my mom. I remember praying that they both would
get in an accident on their way home from work, my mom and step dad, and that I
would feel safe. I cried myself to sleep that night because who wishes their parents
would die instead of come home, what a horrible person I felt I was.

My
father lived in Oregon. Oregon was the promise land. The grass was green, there
were trees everywhere, and it was safe. We went there for the summer and my
sister begged him to let her stay. So he filed paperwork to gain custody of my
sister. The attorney took a deposition from her detailing all the abuse she was
suffering.

I
was asked if I wanted to live with Dad, and I did…but I was afraid, was still
cowering on my bed in my mind. I was a child asked to make an adult decision. I
was afraid to tell the truth. My secrets kept me safe…we don’t talk about what
happens at home. And to this day the one thought that has shamed me the most
was that maybe mom and Doug would treat me better. Maybe they will learn from losing
my sister that they couldn’t treat me that way.

So
I went home, back to Idaho. For a week all I heard was how horrible my sister
was. How big a fucking liar she was, and how dare she do this to them. I
cowered inside; there was nothing I could do about it. They were still abusing
her and she wasn’t even there. Then they started hitting me more often. But the
worst thing was the yelling, and screaming, and name calling…

Growing
into adulthood I had much shame. Shame for not being able to tell my dad that
they were hurting me too. Shame for not stopping them from hurting my sister.
Shame for loving them. Shame for hating them. most of all I had shame for hoping that by my
sister leaving I would get a mother and step father that cared for me, and
loved me. I had shame for not being able to make adult decisions as a child. I
had no choice, I was a child.

So,
today when I was confronted with an adult decision I responded as an adult. No longer
will I make decisions from that bed that I cowered in. There isn’t enough
liquor in the world to make those kinds of decisions ok, there never was I just
didn’t know that.

Jenny
I am sorry for being mad at you for being able to escape.

This
War

To end
all

We pay
our toll

In
blood we pay

For
you

And
you

And
you

We pay

That
you may never have to

See
what we see

Feel
that which we have felt

Know
this

For in
blood do we pay

For
you never to have this experience

This

This

War

Chris
McQueeney 11/11/12 9:29 P.M.

P.S. If you are reading this I would like you to
know that I have appreciated your friendship, and also your input. I hope you
continue to read my work…

Monday, November 12, 2012

Today is a day of reflection for many, as it should be. So today I was reflecting on the battles I have fought in my life...never on a true battle field, but a war zone none the less. Here is a poem, and below that is a small section of the manuscript I am currently working on. Due to poor health my writing has not been progressing like it should, at least how I feel it should, but I am getting back into the swing of things. Tonight a woman is going to help me start putting a chap book together of poetry, I guess the pros will have to wait for the second (or fifth) book :-)

In
arms

If
I die this day

Lay
me down with the fallen

For
in arms I went to the field of battle

And
in their arms I would be sent off

Into
eternity

Chris
McQueeney 11/11/12 8:39 P.M.

Dr...I need help

Society has a bad
impression of drug addicts. And it should, but the way society in general
thinks about addiction is not functional. I had been shooting up some very good
crystal meth and I wanted to quit…but I couldn't That shit had me by the
balls. I’m not sure how long that particular run lasted but it was the middle
of the summer, the temp in the mid-90s, and I was walking around in a long
sleeved sweatshirt because of the track marks.

I remember getting
on the thirty-three bus because I couldn't go back to the place I was staying
and I didn't know where to go. I didn't want to do this shit any more. I rode
the bus from Oregon City to Portland and back three times before getting off.
Not quite sure what time it was but it wasn't too late because the McClane Clinic
on the middle level of Oregon City was open. I decided that I was going to go
in and ask the doctor for help. I remember thinking that I had to talk to the
doctor because if I talked to him as a patent he had to keep it confidential. I
walked in and asked to talk to the doc and the receptionist had me fill out the
paperwork and wait.

It was cool in the
office and the light was dim. I was so fucking high. Every nerve in my body was
on edge, racing. After being up for days though and being in a state of perpetual
starvation I had reached a plateau. I was so fucking high but I didn't feel
like I was. No more picking at myself, no twitching, and no paranoia. I can’t
speak for other tweekers but this was a strange feeling to have. I didn't think
of it at the time but I was for the first time resolute. I wanted to stop and
the doc was going to make that happen.

The wait wasn't long, maybe fifteen minutes, before I was directed into a small examination
room. The doctor was already there waiting. The nurse handed him my paperwork
and walked out. He looked over the papers and without even looking at me he
asked what he could do for me. Without hesitating I pulled up the sleeves of my
sweatshirt and showed my arms. All up and down both of my arms were track marks.
Every vain I could hit had been hit. Some of the veins had been hit so many
times they were just long ugly bruises. People call them track marks because
that is what they look like, just follow the tracks to find where the drugs
have gone in.

“ I've been slamming
crystal and I can’t stop, I need help.”

Finally he looked
up at me and his whole demeanor changed. Gone was the calm professionalism, the
doctor client detachment. In its place an attitude of disgust washed over the
doctor. I could see the change in him. That was the first time I experienced
that, but not the last. He didn't check my vitals. He didn't ask me any
questions. No when was the last time you ate, or how long have you been up, and
no how much have you been using. Maybe
those things were obvious to him…maybe, but I don’t think so.

He turned from me and
the disdain radiating off him was palpable. He scribbled something on a piece
of paper and handed it to me. “Here are some phone numbers, you need to leave”
and with that he opened the door and practically shoved me out.

I went into that
man’s, no that doctor’s, office, as a paying customer and asked for help. He
was duty bound to help me. At one point in time he swore an oath, the
Hippocratic Oath. I was polite to his staff, I was honest with him. I asked for
help with no excuses, no preamble about how it was not my fault. He gave me a
piece of paper with two numbers and rudely told me to leave. This professional,
this man who swore an oath gave me no medical treatment, gave me a piece of
paper with two non-operational disconnected phone numbers and charged me one
hundred and seventy dollars for his mistreatment of me.

Chris McQueeney 2012

There is more from that day, but if you read this far and are not one of my beta readers you'll have to wait. that is of course if you are willing to, or want to read more of my shit :-)